Fear And Loathing
by aracelymercerchandler
Summary: Severus Snape is one big bottle of fun and Aracely knows it. But will the dark mysterious potions master allow a bit of erotica tonight? Severus SnapexOC oneshot OOC Severus Snape


There are three days until Saturday and, believe me, three days is plenty long enough to go from slightly stressed but otherwise mentally stable to paralysed with insane fear. I wish I knew what I was so afraid of. I mean, Snape can't literally kill me, can he? I think Dumbledore would frown on any of the other Unforgivables as well. What can he do? Take off a few points, as if I could give a toss about the House Cup. Make me scrub some cauldrons. Big deal.

No, I am deluding myself with this bravado. I know perfectly well that Snape is entirely capable of reducing even the stoutest of characters to a cowering greasy spot on the dungeon floor. All he has to do is be himself. I am gearing up for a substantial blow to my self-esteem at the very least.

But, look on the bright side . No, this is serious, stop what will he do to me? Babs and I have listed the possibilities exhaustively. From grabbing me by the hair and ravishing me over his desk (highly desirable but unlikely) to having me sacrificed at a Dark Revel (less so on both counts), no scenario has escaped the notice of our depraved imaginations.

Naturally by Saturday I am a pulsing, unravelling mess of nerves. He walks particularly languidly along the Ravenclaw table after breakfast and makes sure I get a full eyeful of slow-mo dark stare as he passes me.

"He's going to hurt me," I whimper to Babette as I watch his receding silhouette.

"You hope," she says laconically.

Before we leave the hall, some Slytherin kid pops up at our table and plonks The Story of O down next to the fried eggs.

"Professor Snape told me to give it to you. He says you'll have to finish reading it before tonight. Something about a book report."

"Gee. Thanks," I say morosely, though I do perk up slightly at the prospect of staff-sanctioned porn study. The idea that I will be pleasuring myself in the Prefects' Bathroom later as a result of Professor Snape directly ordering me to read a dirty book delights my deviant mind.

I am less delighted later on that afternoon, dashing through a synopsis of The Story of O ahead of tonight's festivities. I feel absolutely sure he will ask me to read it out loud and I will splash to the floor in a puddle of mortification. Is there some magical way out of this? Could I obliviate him? Put a Confundus Charm on him? No.

After a dinner of fresh air and heavily sugared tea, I spend an hour in front of the mirror in my dorm. What does he see when he sees me? Straight up and down, average height, flat chest, slightly bulbous grey/blue eyes, very long brown hair, full slightly-pouty lips. Nothing special. Though my skin is nice; delicate, unblemished. I have always been in the background, a library girl, a wallflower. I take off my glasses and decide to keep my hair down for a change. He will think I am trying to look pretty for him, though. Can't have him thinking that. by nature."

"Very witty, Sir," I deadpan. I don't want him to see my fear, though I strongly suspect he already has.

His black eyes flicker sharply. "I hope that isn't disrespect I'm sensing in your tone, Miss Branson," he says dangerously. "It isn't the first time I have had occasion to query your attitude, but believe me, it will be the last. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir. After all, it's nearly the end of term." I can't seem to stop myself, and a slightly hysterical giggle leaks out of me.

Snape rises to his full height and prowls back over until he is inches from me. He leans down slightly, necessitating the tilting up of my own face. I am looking straight into his eyes, so close I could just stand on my tiptoes and graze his lips with mine. Perhaps I should do that; it might deflect some of the waves of livid menace radiating down towards me.

"By the time you leave this room, you are going to be very, very sorry, Miss Branson." He taps the parchment I am twisting in my hands. "Read it." He steps back and perches himself on the edge of his desk, legs crossed. I knew this would happen. I stare at the parchment, scanning the first sentence over and over. "Aloud," he elucidates, with a roll of his eyes.

I clear my throat and give him a panicky little grimace. "The Story of O consists of the reflections of a young woman on her experience of complete submission within a sexual relationship," I begin tremulously. Snape looks as if he would be a critical kind of audience, so I don't look at him for the entirety of my recitation, reading in a flat monotone and fixing my eyes on the parchment.

At last my voice dies away, after averring that O did not compromise or contradict the notion of gender equality, as O consented to her treatment at all times and derived the keenest pleasure from it, giving my usual defence of free speech and free thought, etc. etc. You know, just in case Snape was in any doubt.

I roll up the parchment and eye the flagstones. I hear Snape shift position, then he speaks.

"Interesting, Miss Branson. Look at me." Unwillingly I look up. "You have some insight into O's thoughts on her condition. I am curious to know what prompted you to choose this book to read."

Has he not embarrassed me enough, I wonder? I suppose not. "I thought it soundedstimulating." (I-can't-believe-I'm-having-a-conversation-about-my-sexual-predilections-with-Professor-Snapeup to a point, I suppose." He's going to want details. I can't possibly go into details.

"Up to a point? And what is that point?" Knew it.

"I don't think I'd be up for genital piercing, Sir. Or branding."

"But as far as the rest goesI might not," I hazard hopefully. "I've neverto be punished."

"Do you think you need to know?"

"Ohso arousing!

"You certainly deserve to."

The air between us appears to be shimmering, like a heat haze. I hardly dare breathe for fear that my interpretation of this conversation is wrong and he does not, after all, have some kind of dishonorable intention towards me.

He breaks our intent eye contact and inhales sharply. "Very well," he says decisively. "As a Ravenclaw, and one of the brightest of their number, I do not need to impress the importance of discretion on you, do I?"

I shake my head, licking my lips with nervous excitement. Is this a dream?

"I must also warn you that, once I have commenced your chastisement, you may not change your mind or withdraw consent. It will finish when I see fit. Do you still wish to proceed, or shall I send you to Filch to polish some portrait frames?"

Jakers, as me old Irish granny would say. This is serious. I cough briefly and say, in a slightly too-high voice, "No, Sir, I won't change my mind."

"Brave or foolish?" murmurs Snape speculatively. "Let's find out shall we." He stands and moves around to the side of the desk, facing me, arms folded. "Disrobe," he instructs.

I shrug out of my Ravenclaw blue and gold number, standing in my uniform pleated skirt and white shirt, black Mary-Janes and white ankle socks. He beckons silently and I take a faltering couple of steps toward him. "Over the desk, Miss Branson." Eek. I take it back. But I can't. I bend at the waist and follow Snape's command to grip the far edge and keep my feet as far apart as I comfortably can. The desk is quite low and I am highly conscious of the way my arse is thrust in the air like an open invitation to any passing sadists. Luckily there is only one passing sadist in the room, though, and he is finicking about behind me, adjusting my posture and running a hand along the curve of my spine in a way that feels like a ripple of electricity.

He satisfies himself with the vulnerability of my pose, and the next thing I am aware of is the hem of my skirt tickling my thighs as it is raised to my waist, leaving my regulation white cotton knickers on magnificent display. My resolve has waned to the point where I doubt it will ever wax again. I want to shout 'Cut!' I want to run back to the dorm and lie whimpering beneath my duvet, hugging a teddy bear. But I have signed up for this now. I have given the most feared and loathed man in the entire school, and possibly the wizarding world, carte blanche to hurt and humiliate me according to his whim. And that is what he will do.

My cheek pressed to the wooden surface of the desk, facing tactically away from Snape, I wait in chilly trepidation for the next sensation. Which isoh, two hands. Creeping up to the waistband, fingers hooked underneath, a yanking down so fast and clinical I am put in mind of an elastoplast being torn off. They reach my knees and stop there, and I can feel cold air on my naked behind. He is looking at my naked behind. And the rest. I think I may die.

The hands descend again, and I can hear his breathing, more laboured than usual, as he brushes those elegant fingers against my goose-pimpling skin, just as I have so often dreamed he would. It feels so deeply, deliriously sensual that I wiggle my bottom slightly as he strokes, his response to which is to deliver the first ringing slap. It is almost a relief, and I let out a big sigh. It doesn't hurt that much, just a brief sting which fades almost instantly. But the sound of it and the thought of it are fantastically stimulating.

"I hope you don't think I'm going to be easy on you," he says softly. Oh good, I think.

"No, Sir," I say robotically. Several more hard smacks are dealt, sending little waves of warmth and buzziness through the area.

"I'm going to be very thorough, Miss Branson," he promises. "When I do something, it is done properly." Oh gods. Half a dozen more, at a leisurely pace, but starting to pick up in force. I say 'Nnnrrgh' or something. I have to say, what I always suspected is quite true. I am loving this. It feels divine.

"You need to learn respect," he informs me, and now the rhythm is steady and unrelenting, the full weight of his hand making impact with my rapidly heating flesh, " and I'm the man to teach you."

I start to whimper and squirm a little. The temperature of my bum is starting to get uncomfortable; I have no time to recover before the next stroke is landed, so the little ripples of soreness I started off with are now becoming a constant throb which is persistently added to and multiplied by the Professor.

"Hmm, I think you're feeling it now," he hisses, clearly revelling in the spectacle. "This is what you need, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir," I quiver, not daring to contradict him. He is obviously on a roll now and I don't want him to increase the intensity or speed of his action any further. He really does have a very hard hand. Has he transfigured it into wood or something?

I am really struggling now; gasping and finding it difficult to maintain my position. My buttocks are hot, hot, hot as if I've been sitting in a frying pan. He has been going for ages. Is he ever going to stop? But for all the raging inferno behind, the glowing warmth has spread down to my nether regions and I feel utterly, longingly desperate to touch myself. I daren't though. Oooh, this is wicked. He is wicked.

defeat, humiliation, lust, pleading to name but a few.

"I shall have to be harder on you." His fingers rub against my clitoris and I thrash my limbs in torment. No fantasy was ever this good. He keeps up a slow pressure on my fleshy button, stroking back and forth and circling it with his other fingers, engendering in me a combustible mix of shame, pleasure and fear of losing control. The other hand traverses my derriere, brushing itself up and down the cleft, ever deeper and harder until I yell with abandon, my legs kicking up and off the floor, my hands gripping the desk so hard my nails are marking the varnish. "That's it, Miss Branson, come for me," he mouths into my ear, bent right down over me. I become a massive blur of orgiastic satisfaction, finally coming back to earth limply when he removes his hands and straightens up behind me. Oh, what have I done?

I keep in shaky position over the desk, dreading the moment when it will become inevitable that I must look at him. Should I say something? What should I say? I remove my hands tentatively from the edge of the desk and flatten my palms against the surface preparatory to pushing my upper body away from it. Oooooh, a hand on the small of my back, arresting my progress.

"Did I give you permission to move?" His voice wafts tantalisingly overhead. Is there still more to come? Ye Gods!

"No, Sir."

"It seems you are still in need of correction, Miss Branson. How shall we persuade you to mend your ways?" He moves around the desk and from the corner of my eye I see him take a wooden stirrer from a cauldron and weigh its flattened oval end contemplatively in his hand. That's got to hurt. He makes his stately way back around behind me. I catch my breath, conscious that my posterior is already beacon-red and unable to imagine how this new attack will make it feel.

"Now I am going to give you ten strokes, Miss Branson. I expect you to count them and thank me when I have finished. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir." Oh, well, perhaps ten won't be so bad. Or.." Crack! "Ouch! One, Sir!"

"Better." Even louder crack! Screech. "Two, Sir!" And so it continues. I am sure I am swollen, and possibly bruised. Yet I don't regret any of it; I feel absolutely exhilarated.

When Snape puts the stirrer aside and orders me up after the last stroke, I feel like dropping down to my knees and kissing his feet. I want to worship him. I am O! Freaky! Instead I stand in front of him with my eyes meekly downcast and my head bowed.

"Have we forgotten something, Miss Branson?" he asks severely. Oh! I was supposed to thank him.

"Thank you, Sir," I spout obediently.

He grunts in satisfaction, then takes my arm and propels me over to a cupboard door, which he swiftly transfigures into a mirror. "Look at yourself," he instructs, turning me around so I have to look over my shoulder at my reflection. Crivens! My rump is dark, dark red, contrasting rather artistically with the milky whiteness of my thighs. Snape wasn't joking when he said he'd be thorough; no spot is left unreddened. "That should keep you in line for a while," he says drily, though I can see in the mirror that his eyes are strangely glazed and his jaw twitching slightly. I touch my bottom gingerly, feeling its heat through my fingertips.

"All right, that's enough," says Snape in an unusually agitated tone. "You are dismissed."

Oh, is that it?

"Sir?" I query softly, but he spins me round and pushes me towards the door.

"Now! Before I change my mind."

I hasten out to the dungeons again, pulling my knickers up and my skirt down as I go, and spend the rest of the evening wondering what would have happened if he had changed his mind.


End file.
